I wrote about you last night
when there were supposed to be
a million falling stars
clouds got in the way
but hell, those weren't really suns
falling to their death
would have been fitting
if they were, for the cliche is apt:
you being my light of day
and you did fall from the sky,
though not through the firmament at night
with others tracing your trails
you jumped solo from the
GW Bridge, on a clear Thursday
at a low high noon
your obit was politically polite, not
describing your terse flight, or the bones
the Hudson's waters crushed
so I wrote about you last night
a missive to me--I asked what the Times did not,
what was your final thought
when you stepped from the rail:
did you see your whole life fly before your eyes
or just sky, water and the helpless bridge
The George Washington Bridge, Manhattan, New York